Camel Bandit Bombardier
I met him once near a samovar on the high plains of El Paso. He brayed at me a throaty camel bray and told me of his bandit years. You see he wasn’t always evil. A true bombardier by birth, flying in the soapy skies of London, casting shadows over children in long green fields and trembling with dehydration returning from the front. He could slip a daff bomb down the chimney of a dutch hovel and rake a field of raiders in the winks of an afternoon. The mighty camel bombardier he was, and not the only mighty one, but certainly the only camel one.
The camel bandit chewed a flake of dried prickly pear and spit in the dust.
“No time for air raids these days,” he muttered and pulled out his .35 caliber. He broke the barrel and showed me the glimmering malachite handmade bullets inside. I’d never seen a malachite bullet and didn’t believe it would shoot. He buffed his barrel, replaced his locking and eyed me down.
“I could prove it works to you, but then you’d be dead.” So I did believe him.
The next I heard of the wild camel bandit bombardier was years later and miles from the edge of the Sargasso sea. Somebody had called him out with his crazy malachite, and the man lay dead on the floor boards of a parked eel vessel. You’d not think much of the average camel, but I say again, Zeus even could not fell such a brimstone beast. I bet you could even watch the camel while he would buy vitamin stuffs, or as he would explain the best multivitamin. But then of course, you might be dead as well.
